


An Elephant Named Bunny

by ZoS



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Angst, Because it pairs really well with tragedy, But not a major character, Character Death, Domestic, Drama, Established Relationship, F/F, Family Dynamics, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Humor, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:20:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26718925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoS/pseuds/ZoS
Summary: When tragedy strikes, Andy and Miranda find themselves in Cincinnati. Together and apart, they try to process their feelings while also taking a hard look at their own lives and choices.
Relationships: Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs
Comments: 43
Kudos: 193





	1. Chapter 1

Andy was sitting on the edge of their bed when Miranda entered the room with two garment bags from the foyer closet. Her phone lay limply in her listless hand, her gaze unfocused as she stared aimlessly into space.

"Who was that?" Miranda inquired on her way to the walk-in closet.

"My mom," Andy replied numbly.

"That was short." Poking her head through the doorway, she gave a mirthless, knowing smile. "What did she say about me this time? That I work too much or that I don't treat you right?"

"Um... yeah, no, we didn't really get to that," said Andy, her voice hollow.

Back in the room, Miranda headed to the vanity, unclasping a silver bracelet at her wrist. Through the mirror, she looked at Andy's reflection behind her. "What did she want, then?"

"What?" Andy asked, finally snapping out of her stupor. Her head lifted, her eyes blinking back into reality, meeting Miranda's in the mirror.

"What did you talk about?" Miranda frowned.

"Oh." Andy looked down, licking her lips. "She called to say that my dad died."

* * *

"All I'm saying is if I have to pretend to like her fruit cake one more time--"

"Just be nice, she's trying her best."

"She's trying to poison me."

Their hushed murmuring came to a stop when they did, standing outside the door of Andy's childhood home. For the first time, Richard Sachs wouldn't be waiting inside, reclining in his worn-out armchair, his feet crossed on the foot rest, clad in his blue slippers. He wouldn't be in the kitchen, hunting for his sugar-free dark chocolate or sneaking the one with the added sugar, and he wouldn't be getting out of the shower to greet his guests, smelling of aftershave with a towel wrapped around his waist, still dripping all over the floor. For the first time, Andy's father wasn't there, and he was never coming back home.

"Andy," Kate Sachs welcomed her daughter, her smile sad but warm, and drew her into a hug. "Baby."

"Hi, Mom," Andy whispered, tightly embracing her remaining parent. Any second now, her father would emerge from behind, waiting patiently for his turn to say hello. Andy squeezed her eyes shut, unwilling to see that he wasn't.

Parting, Kate directed her smile at Miranda, giving her, too, a hug. "Miranda. Thanks for coming."

"I'm very sorry for your loss," Miranda said earnestly, hugging back.

"Thank you," replied Kate and stepped back. With a deep breath, she turned back to Andy, taking her hands.

"How are you doing, Mom? How are you holding up?"

"Awful," she answered simply, although her smile never wavered, as if she were responding to an inquiry about the time. It had taken Miranda a long time to get used to a house where people spoke so honestly and openly about their feelings. "Absolutely terrible. I'm so mad at him for leaving me."

"Mom..." Andy let go of one hand to stroke up and down an arm that seemed so bony and frail and _old_ all of a sudden, as if years had been shaved off her mother in a matter of days.

"Caroline said she will be here for the funeral," Miranda spoke. "Cassidy won't be able to make it, though. She sends her apology and condolences."

"Oh, no, it's fine." Kate waved her hand in dismissal. "She should focus on enjoying herself." For just a moment, her eyes lit up. "I hope you brought new pictures?"

"Mom," Andy chuckled, "I told you, we don't print them anymore. Everything she sends, I forward to you. Don't you check your phone?"

"I know that," Kate said defensively, then turned to Miranda. "My daughter thinks I don't know how technology works."

"I'm sure we have some new ones you haven't seen," Miranda placated and placed a hand on her partner's back, gesturing for her to cross the threshold into the house.

"Oh, gosh, I'm sorry." Kate pressed a hand to her chest in mortification, moving aside. "Please, come in. Oh, my mind is not here; I have so many things I have to do. There's the funeral arrangements and the will and, god, finding a casket--I still haven't done that. How am I supposed to--"

"Mom, Mom." Andy laid her hands firmly on her shoulders, stilling her rambling, while Miranda hauled their bags inside. "It's okay. That's what we're here for, to help. You don't have to do anything on your own."

"And we'll pay for everything, of course," Miranda interjected.

Kate's eyes opened wide. "Oh, no, no, I can't let you do that."

"We insist," Andy said with enough finality to brook no argument. "Now, where did you put all the papers you got?"

"Oh, they're in the kitchen." She pointed behind her at the small room off from the entrance, and then proceeded to head in that direction. Behind her back, Andy and Miranda shared a somber look, Andy shaking her head with a sigh.

"Oh, Miranda," Kate called from the kitchen, "I have some of the fruit cake you like in the fridge. I'll get some plates." For the first time since the phone call that had brought the world crashing down on her, Andy had to suppress a genuine laugh while Miranda's eyes widened in outrage, gesturing toward the kitchen as if to say "You see?"

"Come on." Andy rolled her eyes and patted her arm, entering the kitchen. On the table that hadn't been replaced since she was fifteen-years-old lay stray pieces of paper in a disorganized heap, which she tried to sort through while her mother rose on socked tiptoes to pull a stack of plates down from the cupboard.

"Why were the police here?" Andy frowned while examining a page with the Cincinnati Police Department's logo stamped at the top. Sidling up to her, Miranda took a curious peek.

"Oh, it's standard procedure, apparently," Kate casually explained, bringing the plates and a bunch of forks to the table. "When someone dies at home." Turning to Miranda, she elaborated with wide eyes, "It was a heart attack, you know. He came back from work, walked through the door, and collapsed. Just like that. Didn't even get a chance to say hello."

Miranda, as a first of many acts of kindness she would have to force herself to commit in the upcoming days, refrained from pointing out that she'd obviously been filled in on the details. As a second act of kindness, she suffered through a thin slice of cake in silence while Andy and Kate discussed the arrangements that would have to be made.

"They're expecting us at the funeral home at 3 to pick a casket," Kate said, becoming sober again. "There's something I never thought I'd say. I didn't even know that was a thing."

"Did he ever say what kind of casket he wanted?" asked Andy, also scarcely able to attach the words coming out of her mouth to reality. It also felt absurd to speak about her father in past tense--rude, even, as if any second now he would walk into the room and demand to be acknowledged.

"All he said was that he didn't want to be cremated," Kate replied, heavily seating herself on a chair and covering half of her face with her hand. "Christ, Andy, I don't know what I'm going to do without him. I just have no idea."

Miranda put down her fork, Andy raised her head; they shared another silent look. It was going to be a long few days.

* * *

**_Everything alright?_ **

_**Worst place I've ever been**_ , Andy texted Miranda back before pocketing her phone, and it was: being Miranda Priestly's partner, and moreover before that, her assistant, she'd visited many a showroom in the last few years of her life; never had she imagined one such place existed solely for caskets, and frankly, she couldn't think of a more depressing setting.

The funeral home director, more resembling of a tactful car salesman, walked her and her mother through rows and rows of different caskets in various colors and materials, explaining the quality and features of some much like one would a Corvette or a BMW. Andy half-expected him to slap the top of a casket and declare, "Now, this baby, she can hold a person as heavy as two-hundred pounds."

Despite what must have been a long career of performing the same task--despite the possibility that Andy and Kate were not even his first buyers of the day--he was kind and patient, urging them to take their time until they found the right casket. To Andy, they all looked the same: oblong boxes designated for the ground, in which the deceased could decompose peacefully for the rest of eternity. It hardly mattered whether the casket was mountain peak white or mahogany brown, or what type of lids it had and how soft the interior fabric was--it wouldn't matter to Richard Sachs and, for that matter, no one else would be able to appreciate the selection for very long--yet the thought of acquiring anything short of the best of the best for her father seemed unacceptable to Andy.

"This one has a memory drawer in the lid, if you want to send him off with any personal possessions," the car salesm-- funeral home director said gently, lifting the lid of a silver-lined, black casket to present the feature in question. The interior was already made to look like a bed with tufted, ivory fabric and a matching pillow, the space so narrow that, if alive, her father would have never agreed to squeeze himself into it.

As the man continued to speak and her mother feigned composure, Andy watched on in a dreamlike state of trance, escaping to a different place in her mind.

  
_"Huh, look at that. I didn't know monkeys could bleed," her dad said playfully, kneeling on their backyard lawn with her scraped knee in his lap, his eyes crinkled with mirth._

_"I wanted to get to the tippy top," explained seven-year-old Andy while the culprit loomed apathetically above her, its thinner branches swaying gently in the early autumn breeze. She tried not to wince in pain, tried to be brave, but frowned apprehensively nonetheless. "Will it leave a scar?"_

_"Hmm." Her dad pretended to give the matter serious thought. "Might need some stitches. Maybe even reconstructive surgery. But the good news is you'll get to keep the leg," he finished with his best smile, prompting a gleeful giggle from Andy._

_"I think even Mom will agree that the best medicine in this case is ice cream. What do you say?"_

_"With whipped cream?" she asked hopefully._

_"Don't think it'll work without," he said to her immense pleasure, the pain all gone, a grin lighting up her face._

_"Come on." He got up, showed her his back, then bent over again. "Hop on."_

  
"I'll be in my office if you need me," the funeral home director said respectfully, leaving them alone to make their decision. When she turned to Andy, Kate's eyes were brimming with unshed tears.

"Mom," said Andy and pulled her into her arms.

"I just can't believe this is all happening," Kate whispered into her hair. "It doesn't feel real, does it?"

"No, it doesn't," Andy concured, withdrawing.

"Christ," Kate said and looked at the casket to her side, running her hand across the polished surface. "If he weren't dead already, Richie would get a heart attack just at the amount of money these things cost."

"I told you, Mom, you don't have to worry about that. We have the money."

She scoffed. "Doesn't make it any better. He hated all this fancy-schmancy stuff, you know."

"Yeah, I know." Andy smiled fondly, even if it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Remember that atrocious, brown jacket he had for, like, twnety years?" Even at her lowest fashion point, Andy had been able to tell that that clothing garment belonged on no one's body. It was a miracle she'd ever managed to find her style with that kind of upbringing.

"Do I?" her mother said, and for just a moment, she looked equally amused. "I had to persuade him not to wear it to our wedding."

"The way we practically had to force him to get rid of it when it was frayed all over already," Andy laughed. "I think I might've actually seen tears in his eyes when he finally threw it away."

Kate chuckled, too, but she was fast growing somber again. "Yes. He liked simplicity." Andy's smile gradually waned, her gaze following her mother attentively as she proceeded to walk around, touching various caskets, as if waiting for one to connect with her.

"I think he will like this one," she observed at last, resting her hand on the shiny, walnut surface of a casket, then amended, "Would."

Andy came to stand beside her, studying her selection. It didn't hold a striking difference to any of the other caskets in the room, but it was a little more subdued than some: respectable, but not something her simplicity-favoring father would have balked at. "Yeah. He would."

Kate inhaled deeply. "So that's one less thing to worry about. And we already have a joint burial plot--at least that's one thing we had the good sense to do in advance. You know, they get snagged up so fast these days, you'd think people are dying more than they used to."

"I think it's more about space," Andy replied, absently stroking the cool wood under her palm, but her mind was already elsewhere. She and Miranda had been together for the better part of a decade, yet never broached the subject of death, of making any arrangements as to not be blindsided the day one of them walked through the door and abruptly collapsed. She supposed one way or another, death was inevitable, and in their case, closer than either of them would like.

Miranda was young and healthy, she was at her prime, she possessed, it seemed at times, more stamina than Andy, but the fact remained that the age gap between them was significant, and the chances of her going first were high. Most days, Andy didn't think about it, but every once in a while, the devastating notion crept into her awareness, terrifying her to the core. Right now, standing in a casket showroom, making arrangements to bury her father, surrounded by death, the thought of losing the love of her life was inescapable.

They didn't have a joint plot, they'd never made a will, and Andy didn't think she'd ever be able to face the day Miranda left her.

"I want you to write the eulogy," Kate's words punctured the silence, invading her thoughts.

Blinking, she looked up. "What?"

"I know Dad would have wanted you to." At Andy's incomprehensive stare, she added, "You're the writer in the family, you can do it."

"Mom, I write about corrupt politicians, not eulogies," Andy argued incredulously. She didn't bother pointing out that in her early days as a reporter, she had written obituaries, but then again, none of them had belonged to her loved ones. "You can't possibly expect me to write it."

"Why not?"

"I-I wouldn't even know what to say."

"About your father?" Kate gave her a challenging, raised-eyebrow look that silenced her, but then when she thought about it some more, she realized that she really didn't know what to say. The suddenness and surprise of the whole situation aside, how did you encapsulate someone's entire life in one short speech? How did you do it when that someone was one of the closest people to you? The best writer in the would couldn't achieve that feat, surely.

"Please, Andy," Kate softly pleaded. "It would mean a lot to your father." And the "I can't bring myself to do it" remained unspoken.

Andy opened her mouth to speak, took a breath, then looked down at the casket that would serve as her father's final, eternal resting place.

One last gift.

* * *

Dinner was a quiet affair. The dining table, which would normally be used upon guests' arrival to maintain appearances, had been left stranded and traded in for the small kitchen table--big enough to serve three people.

No grandiose meal had been prepared and none was desired, but Andy had whipped up a simple salad while Miranda sliced a loaf of bread and extracted various cheeses from the fridge, and fried three omelettes while the latter set the table. Now they sat beside each other while Kate occupied the head of the table, the clinking of the cutlery and the occasional chewing sounds filling the heavy atmosphere.

They didn't discuss the impending funeral or the missing dinner party, but when the meal was finished, Miranda quietly announced that she'd relocate to the living room to catch up on work and Kate insisted on washing the dishes before finally being convinced to leave them to Andy and admitting that she was, in fact, quite tired. It was apparent that whatever strong act she'd been putting up throughout the day was diminishing, and with its departure, the feeling of death, of lack of normalcy grew.

She accepted and returned a kiss from her daughter, bid Miranda a polite goodnight--evidently too drained, physically but mostly mentally, for their usual banter--and retired to bed.

"I'm going to make some calls," Miranda murmured when she'd left, laying a tender hand on the small of Andy's back while she placed a plate on the dish rack to dry. "Do you need anything?"

"I'm good." Andy smiled gratefully and pecked her lips.

Alone in the kitchen, she gazed out of the window: the sky was darkening, unlike its New York counterpart showing millions of tiny, white stars. Out on the suburban street, cars had emptied the narrow road, their drivers all returning to their respective homes, where yellow lights lit up the windows. As a kid, it had granted Andy a sense of serenity: she was part of a community. Now, she couldn't help feeling a tinge of resentment for all the families she'd grown up around having their merry dinners, lazying together in front of the television, resuming their normal lives while hers was crumbling.

* * *

At 1 A.M., for no apparent reason, Miranda woke up. It was a marvel how deadly silent Ohian nights were in comparison to New York ones. She lived in a quiet, prestigious neighborhood in the Upper East Side, yet it still was nothing like the stillness of the night in Cincinnati, which might have been the only thing Miranda liked about Cincinnati.

But if it wasn't noise that had woken her up, then what was it? Rolling on her side, her question was answered when she stretched an arm over her companion's body and it met nothing but air, ungracefully dropping to the cold sheet beneath.

Opening her eyes with effort, she flicked on the bedside lamp and squinted as the sudden, bright light intruded on the darkness, illuminating the bed and Andy's evident absent. She sat up and squinted at the en suite door, but where the small, frosted glass window at the top usually gave away the light within, it was dark now, adding to the mystery.

Abandoning the warmth of the bed, she donned her robe over her nightgown, padding her way out of the room and feeling for any obstacles in the pitch-black hallway. At the top of the stairs, a dim light finally shone her way, disclosing her partner's whereabouts.

"What are you doing here?" she questioned upon entering the kitchen, her low voice breaching the quiet of the night, her tired eyes straining against the overhead light.

From the kitchen table, Andy looked up, still clad in the day's outfit, her hair ruffled from what Miranda knew was her frustrated habit of repeatedly pushing it back from her face. The bangs she'd once liked were long gone, but recently Andy had cut her hair just below her shoulders and these days was wearing it in supple, golden brown waves that granted her a much more mature and elegant look that Miranda found herself attracted to even more. It wasn't quite so elegant now, after the long day they'd both had, and her red-rimmed eyes betrayed her exhaustion. Miranda took a seat opposite her.

"I've been trying to write this eulogy for the past..." Andy trailed off, looking up at the large wall clock above the fridge, and her eyes widened. "Oh, god, three hours." Before her, morbidly ironically, lay her father's legal pad, its yellow pages as empty as they'd been when she first sat down to commence writing. She didn't think she'd ever experienced a worse writer's block.

"Looks like you're making progress," Miranda commented.

Andy said, "I'm half-convinced this is my mom's way of getting back at me for stealing and losing her favorite necklace in middle school."

At the sound of Miranda's chuckle, she abandoned her pen and leaned back in her chair, pushing her hair back once more. "God," she breathed, "I can't believe this is really happening. I'm actually sitting in my parents' kitchen, trying to write my dad's eulogy."

Miranda studied her face for a moment, perhaps already gauging her reaction before asking the question, "Was it rough at the funeral home?"

"Rough..." Andy echoed, turning her gaze to the ceiling. It had been surreal. It had been grim and jarring. The picture of their selected casket appeared in her head unprompted, instantly accompanied by the mental image of her father, his pale, lifeless body lying stiffly in the confined space, dressed in a suit he would have probably hated, lowered into a place Andy would never be able to visit.

She hadn't seen him, couldn't conjure up an image where he was anything other than the healthy, lively person she'd known. In her mind's eye, he was sitting across from her, rectangle glasses perched almost on the tip of his nose, a slight, knowing smirk playing at his lips, as if he knew their imminent conversation would be laden with jokes. When she thought of it like that, she was glad they weren't going with an open casket; that was exactly how she wanted to remember him.

"I think we should purchase a burial plot when we go back home," she abruptly said, looking back at a startled Miranda.

"Excuse me?"

"A joint one, I mean. For both of us. Did you know how fast they get snagged up?"

"I... didn't give it much thought."

"We have to make plans," Andy stated passionately, pressing her index finger against the tabletop. "We have to be ready."

"Okay," Miranda immediately responded, albeit slightly placatingly. "I'll take care of it."

"Thank you," replied Andy, barely audible. Then she stretched her arms above her head, rubbed her face, and groaned, "God, this is a nightmare."

"Come to bed," Miranda suggested. There was a time and place to talk about death and future plans and grief, and it wasn't 1 in the morning in the Sachses' kitchen.

"No, I have to finish this first," Andy insisted, pulling the pad to her. "It's gonna be crazy tomorrow, I won't have time."

She knew as well as the next writer that forcing it, especially when she was so tired, would produce the opposite result, but she also knew that she couldn't go to sleep before she'd gotten it over with, before she'd released that iron lump lodged deep in her chest. And, mercifully, Miranda didn't argue. Instead, she got up, headed to the oven, and Andy watched curiously as she crouched and reached inside, pulling out a half-full bottle of scotch.

Eyes wide, lips slowly stretching into a smile, Andy inquired, "How did you know my mom had a secret stash?"

"Trust me, every mother has a secret stash," Miranda deadpanned and proceeded toward the dish rack, where she plucked two of the yellow-tinted, floral glasses they'd drunk water from at dinner. As she sat back at the table, she added, "Plus, I caught her last Christmas."

Unable to stop a grin from spreading, Andy accepted a glass and waited for Miranda to pour two fingers of liquid into each one before holding it up in a silent toast.

They drank slowly, enjoying the strong maltiness as it scorched a path down their throats, settling warmly in their stomachs. "God, that's good," Andy sighed.

"Mhm," Miranda agreed, setting her glass on the table. Andy did the same with hers, turning it in place, watching the remaining, amber liquid slosh within its confinements.

The silence that settled over them wasn't exactly tense, but it wasn't comfortable either, the weight of the last couple of days, and of the ones to come, hanging, heavy, above them, casting its shadow on the dimly lit room. They sat quietly and they drank quietly and they didn't meet each other's eyes until Andy softly confessed, "I haven't cried yet." Miranda's gaze lifted from a crack in the table, but Andy didn't look back, finding a distant spot over her shoulder instead. "Not since I got the news."

"Do you want to cry?" Miranda tentatively asked.

"I feel like I should. It's what you do when someone dies, right?" Her eyes briefly clouded over before she blinked several times, grabbing her glass for another sip. When she'd put it down, she continued, "I think I'm still in shock. I think... I didn't get a chance to say goodbye. There wasn't some long, drawn-out illness, he didn't die of old age. When my grandma died, we knew it was coming. At some point, she couldn't even leave the bed anymore; my parents had to hire a live-in nurse to feed and bathe her. So when she did die... it was almost like a relief. This is... one moment he was here, and the next he wasn't. Who could have known?"

When Miranda responded, Andy hadn't realized that she'd finished speaking, thought fragments still warring in her head for a chance to be said, that it nearly came as a surprise. "It doesn't matter," she said quietly, playing with the sash of her robe. "Doesn't matter whether you had time to prepare or not, when you lose a parent, it still comes as a shock. There's no way to prepare for that."

Andy's thoughts screeched to a grinding halt. Although Miranda was no longer looking at her, she was transfixed, waiting avidly for the next words to come out of her mouth. "When my father died, I'd had months to prepare. It wasn't enough." Andy stopped breathing. And finally, their eyes met again and Miranda elaborated, answering the unasked question, "Lung cancer. He was a chain smoker, thought he was invincible." She chuckled bitterly. "In the end, he was the first of us to go."

"You never talk about your family," Andy whispered, afraid to break the spell. She'd always tried to push, as subtly as one pushed Miranda, but it was a well-known fact that Miranda didn't delve into that aspect of her past and that their relationship would have to learn to function without venturing there. Andy knew only enough to piece together a vague picture of the upbringing that had made Miranda Miranda--nothing traumatic per se, but nothing glamorous or, as was in her own case, warm either--but the details of the life she'd had before becoming Miranda Priestly remained an enigma, as was the woman herself, and Andy was hungry for every new puzzle piece.

"It's not something I like to remember," Miranda admitted. "I was the young one--that you already know--always made to feel guilty for leaving town, for wanting something better for myself. My sisters couldn't come to terms with the fact that I'd become more successful than them and they had to stay there and raise families--never mind that they chose to. Or, well, believed they had the choice," she conceded, waving her hand flippantly. "Of course, they never had a problem accepting my checks--my parents, too. Anyway..." she sighed, her whole body sagging with the motion. "Anyway, when the time came, guess who had to pull the plug."

"How did you do it?" Andy asked in a small, thready voice.

Miranda's gaze hardened even as it locked on hers. "Like everything else I do: because I had to. Didn't make it any easier, though," she acknowledged. "Turns out that no matter how much you hate your parents, they're still your parents. And it's impossible to say goodbye."

"I love my dad," whispered Andy, then closed her eyes. "Loved."

"I know."

"I feel..." she continued, and even as she was speaking it out loud, the realization was occuring to her for the first time, "I feel like by writing this eulogy, I'm sealing my relationship with him. Like I'm accepting his death."

"You're saying goodbye." Miranda nodded in understanding.

"Yeah."


	2. Chapter 2

At 7 in the morning, the street was just as quiet as it had been during the night, and as Miranda exited the front door, pulling her robe tighter around her midst, she heard nothing but softly chirping birds and the occasional car in the distance, taking someone to work or school. The early morning air was crisp and cool, the sun barely illuminating the vast sky, and as it gently ushered fallen leaves across sidewalks and lawns, the wind colored Miranda's unmade-up nose and cheeks with its cold caress.

In the Sachses' driveway, parked carelessly askew, stood a black Honda, and against the driver's door leaned a girl in snug, ripped jeans, spiked ankle boots, and, this time, charcoal-black hair. When she removed a half-finished cigarette from her lips, the smoke mingled with her steamy puff of chilly air.

Miranda's face instantly set in a frown that she could tell would carry her through the day. Descending the front porch steps, she headed in sure steps toward the girl.

"Caroline," she greeted her as coldly as the gust of wind that blew her daughter's hair against her face when she turned at the sound. "You made it."

"Told you I would," said Caroline, bringing the tip of the cigarette back to her lips for another inhale.

"Mhm." Miranda nodded. "And whose car is that?"

"My friend's," she let out on a smokey exhale. Miranda arched an eyebrow.

"Does your friend know you... borrowed their car?" Caroline sighed irritably. "And for that matter, what happened to the car we bought you for your birthday?"

"Mom..." she groaned impatiently, closing her lips around the cigarette. Miranda slapped her hand down.

"Put that away, it's disrespectful," she chastised. "People are mourning."

"What? No one's here."

"I am."

"Fine," Caroline sighed again and begrudingly let go of the cigarette, allowing it to fall onto the brick driveway and stubbing it with the tip of a heavy boot. "Happy?"

"Why are you acting like this?" Miranda demanded. "We're attending a funeral today, in case you forgot."

"I know," she drawled, the "duh" hanging in the air, unspoken. "That's why I drove all the way from _NYU_ to Middle-of-Nowhere, America."

"And is that what you're wearing?" Miranda ran her eyes up and down the disgraced outfit, not bothering in the slightest to hide her contempt for the poor excuse for clothes. Her fashion sense, no doubt, Caroline had not inherited from her; in fact, these days it seemed her daughter was trying to draw as farther away from her as possible, which completely baffled Miranda. If she asked Andy, the latter would say it was because she'd enabled her children too much in their young age, so it was a good thing she wasn't asking Andy.

Caroline faked her best angelic smile in response to the question, answering sweetly, "No, I'll wear my goody-two-shoes, white dress."

"Are you doing this on purpose?" Miranda's eyes narrowed. "Why can't you be more like your sister? She's off backpacking through Europe, absorbing cultures, making memories, while you're wasting yourself away, looking like a junkie."

Rolling her eyes so hard it almost looked painful, Caroline exclaimed, "Je-sus, Mom, will you get off my dick?"

" _Caroline_ ," Miranda admonished at once, eyes growing to the size of saucers.

"It's 7 A.M., I don't have to put up with this shit," she stated, pushing off the car.

Miranda grasped her arm before she could take another step toward the house. "Hey. I don't want any of these shenanigans in there, do you hear me? Andrea's just lost her father, she doesn't need to put up with your little show for attention."

With a snarl, Caroline snagged her arm back, but all the same, her face softened as she made her way up the steps, reaching behind her to pull her straightened hair into a low ponytail. Revealing a choker Miranda had to roll her eyes at.

When they entered the house, Andy and Kate were already in the kitchen, surrounded by various noises indicating the beginning of the day: the whirring sound of the brewing coffee filled the room, nearly eclipsing the running water in the sink as Andy washed a spoon and Kate's slamming of the fridge door. Accompanying the smell of ground coffee was that of whole-grain bread in the toaster, a combination that always reminded Andy of waking up on the weekend to find her parents at the kitchen table, listening to the radio and spreading soft cheese or avocado on toast. It was strange what a mere smell could do to you, and this one made her heart clench.

"Look who I found outside," Miranda announced, drawing her attention to the doorway, where Caroline Priestly waved weakly before stepping into Andy's open, eager arms. Her black appearance was the first source of light in Andy's morning.

"I'm so glad you're here," she murmured into her ear before pulling back and stroking her hair. The darker shade made her complexion look even fairer, almost scarily so, but beyond that Andy saw the same sweet eyes that had once looked hopefully at her while she asked if Andy would come see her school recital. "It's so good to see you."

"You, too." Caroline smiled, evidently happier to see her than her own mother.

Kate was next in line to hug her and express her gratitude. "Thank you for coming, sweetheart."

"Yeah, sorry for your loss," Caroline supplied, sounding as if a mere courtesy pained her to provide. "Richard was, like, a really cool dude."

"Yes, he was," Kate agreed wholeheartedly.

"So, Caroline, how's college?" she asked some time later from her spot at the table while adding sugar to her coffee.

Caroline, for her part, held her mug of black coffee between both hands, letting the steams warm up her face. "Awesome," she replied and took a sip. "Lots of parties."

"I think she was asking about your studies," Miranda intervened drily.

Andy, not helping the situation, chimed in, "I remember the parties we had at _Northwestern_. Best part of college," and Miranda, in response, skewered her with an outraged glare.

Before anyone could add to the conversation, a knock diverted their mutual attention to the front door. They weren't expecting any guests, the funeral wasn't to take place until later in the day, yet the knocking returned.

"I'll go." Andy placed a a hand on her mother's shoulder when the latter made to get up, and rose herself.

Opening the door, the first thing she saw was a plastic wrapped, ceramic sheet pan filled with a strange, greyish-brown concoction. The face above it was smiling from ear to ear, crow's feet framed by greying hair.

"Andrea," the owner of the smile greeted her fondly. "So lovely to see you. I wish we could meet under better circumstances."

"Mrs. Steinberg," replied Andy, trying to match her smile.

"I'm so sorry about your dad," Mrs. Steinberg--Ruth--said. She lived further down the street; her two kids had both gone to school with Andy, one in the year before her and the other two years younger than her, and as far as she remembered, they had both been assholes. Ruth was sweeter, but she had a knack for sticking her nose in everyone else's business, and there was little doubt in Andy's mind that her early morning visit to presumably express her condolences was at least partly a ploy to get the sordid details of her father's sudden departure.

"Thank you," she said nevertheless.

"I made this for you and Kate," she continued, thrusting the pan in Andy's hands. "It's a mushroom casserole. And I added some raisins, for extra fun." She winked playfully.

"O-oh..."

"Now, I don't want you guys to worry about food at all," she said seriously, pressing a hand with long, red nails to her chest. "I'm here to help, so you just cross that off your list, alright?"

Thankfully, before Andy could fake her gratitude, the rest of the house's occupants joined her, which instantly granted Ruth permission to slip through the threshold and seize Kate in a tight embrace. "Oh, Kate, dear. I was horrified to hear the news. Just horrified. You know," she said, breaking the hug but keeping a firm hold of Kate's arms, "Henry and I were sitting at home, just watching the news, when we heard the ambulance. And I told Henry, I told him, 'You know, I think they're going to Kate and Richard's house.' Oh, it's just so awful."

"I know," Kate murmured while Andy and Miranda shared a long-suffering look. As Andy headed back to the kitchen to deposit the casserole no one would likely touch, she heard her mother recount, "He just came back from work, walked through the door, and collapsed."

"Oh," Ruth sighed, probably cherishing the small piece of new information, and shook her head. "Just awful."

By the time Andy returned to the entryway, Kate was closing the door behind her neighbor, saying, "Watch how in five seconds the whole street knows about it."

"Well, on that note," Miranda piped up, "I have work to do."

"Now?" Kate didn't try to disguise her judgement. "We're in the middle of breakfast."

"I'm sorry, Kate, but I have a magazine to run," said Miranda, not sorry at all, but Andy appreciated the effort, albeit minimal, to remain polite.

As she left the room, Kate's "Of course you do" could be heard by everyone despite not being spoken aloud, and Andy patted her mother's shoulder to make sure it stayed that way. The next moment, another knock came on the door.

It turned out that the rest of the street hadn't needed Ruth's gossip to be made aware of Richard's passing, and as Mrs. Applegate held up a basket of homemade muffins and effused her sorrow and Mr. Applegate stood stoically by her side, Andy and Kate tried to make themselves comfortable accepting the obligatory courtesy bound to be extended to them in spades in the near future. Andy, in fact, couldn't help but wish a little that her father had died in New York, where none of their neighbors would have cared. She wondered when exactly _that_ mentality had developed in her good girl, Midwestern mind, and supposed Miranda must have rubbed off on her.

"You can keep the basket, of course," Mrs. Applegate offered cheerfully right before the door closed.

"Awesome," Caroline breathed from behind them, making her presence once again known, "you're gonna get so much free food."

This time, she got two glares.

* * *

_When Richard came downstairs for a midnight glass of water, he hadn't expected to see his daughter kneeling by the living room coffee table, its surface covered with books and the emptied contents of her pencil case, her back hunched over the items._

_"Andy?" His bloodshot eyes strained to adjust to the light as he came closer. "What are you doing up? Don't you have a final tomorrow morning?"_

_Huffing, Andy dropped her pencil and cracked the knuckles on her atrophying hand. "Exactly. I'm gonna fail." Algebra had never been her strong suit; her father, on the other hand, would not accept failure in what he deemed the most important subject._

_But the reprimand she was bracing herself for never came. Instead, Richard changed his route, taking a seat on the sofa behind her and picking up the television remote from the end table._

_"Dad, I'm trying to study."_

_As he flipped through the channels, he calmly crossed his legs. "Well, if you haven't obtained anything new by now, you won't by 7 A.M.," he observed matter-of-factly and settled on a late night rerun of_ Friends _. Moments later, Andy abandoned her books and joined him._

_She was incredibly tired the next day, but she passed her test._

* * *

The church had been beautifully arranged for the occasion. It was the same one Andy had attended with her parents on holidays as a kid and tried her first (and last) cigarette behind as a teenager. The casket Kate had picked had been set before the altar, a large, smiling picture of Richard standing on an easel beside it, and big bouqets of white roses and lilies surrounded them. To Andy's surprise and pleasure, attendance was plentiful.

"My condolences," a man she'd never met offered, shaking her hand.

"Thank you." At her side, she heard her mother tell another guest, "He just walked through the door and collapsed. Just like that."

"Put that away," Miranda hissed at Caroline, who, leaning against one of the pews, was smirking down at her phone.

Rolling her eyes, her daughter declared, "I don't fuck with religion," but even so, she slid the phone into the pocket of her too-short dress.

"Yes, well, neither do I, but it's important to Kate so the least we can do is pay our respects."

"Since when do you care about Kate's feelings?"

"Since they also affect Andrea's feelings," Miranda replied. As an afterthought, she added, "And her husband is dead."

By the time the ceremony began, nearly all the pews had been filled; granted, it wasn't a big church, but there was no mistaking the impact Richard Sachs had had on people in his lifetime, and the love and respect they were now paying him back in his death.

The close family was seated in the first row, right before the podium behind which the pastor spoke his kind words. Kate's trembling hand was clutched in Andy's while her other held a shredded tissue that she used to dab at her moist, reddened eyes; on Andy's other side, Miranda's hand rested comfortingly on her shoulder, and, to her left, Caroline fidgeted, her own hands tingling with the forbidden desire to pick up her phone in order to alleviate her boredom.

"Richard was a kind, gentle man taken from us too soon," said the pastor.

Leaning closer to her mother, Caroline whispered mischievously, "Wasn't he, like, your age?"

"And now I believe his daughter, Andy, would like to say a few words."

Letting go of her hand, Kate turned to her with a tremulous smile, silently urging her on. Andy's vision narrowed on her short way to the podium, and she felt downright nauseous when she glimpsed the audience she would have to summarize her father's life to in a few, short sentences. The crumpled piece of paper shook in her hand before she realized it was her hand causing the motion, her chest tightening with dread.

Clearing her throat, she began, "My father was a good, loving man. He was a great father and a great husband, he was a great lawyer, he..." she faltered, sighing. Even without looking, she could feel every eye in the room on her, waiting. Smoothing out the yellow page against the podium's surface, she continued, "I know he's going to be missed by a lot of people..."

Licking her dry lips, she silently read over the generic words she'd compiled apathetically, not feeling a modicum of attachment to them. Or, for that matter, the person they were talking about. Then she re-folded the paper, looked up, and straightened up her posture.

"You know what? This is bullshit." Turning to the pastor, standing off to the side, she caught his scandalized expression, as well as the murmuring from the pews. "I'm sorry, I know I'm not supposed to say that in church. But it is. I'm pissed. And I probably shouldn't say that either, but I'm pissed at everything: I'm pissed at having to stand here and read about my dad from a piece of paper"--she held up the page in question, making the paper rustle--"like that's all his entire life is reduced to. I'm pissed about having to bury him in the first place. And I'm pissed at him," she stated, then looked down at the first row: staring solemnly at her, Miranda nodded her head in a subtle, almost imperceptible movement of encouragement. Go on, she was telling her.

Andy went on, but with less bravado. Every muscle in her body felt heavy, drained with emotion she didn't know how to expel. Perhaps that, too, attested to her time with Miranda, because up until this point, she had never had any problem expressing her feelings. And this person, the one who couldn't cry over the death of a person so dear to her--she didn't recognize that person. "I'm pissed at my dad," she said softly, her face falling, "for dying without giving me the chance to say goodbye."

A few inches from Miranda, her mother was crying, silent tears rolling down her made-up cheeks. Andy grabbed her neglected eulogy and said, "Sorry, Mom."

On her way back to her seat, she stopped at the casket, touching her fingertips to the lid, below which her father's head lay. "Goodbye, Dad," she whispered.

* * *

After the burial--in, admittedly, a beautiful part of the cemetery--everyone relocated to the Sachs residence, family and guests alike. The kitchen counter was covered entirely by what Caroline nicknamed "pity food" from friends and neighbors wishing to help the grieving process through the stomach, and when that space wasn't enough, the kitchen and dining tables were transformed into improvised buffets, leaving the coffee table for snacks Kate had put out to, invertedly, feed the well-wishers.

"Miranda," Andy called cheerfully, pulling her to her side. "I don't think you had a chance to meet my grandpa at the funeral."

Before Miranda stood a short, slim, smiling man. A white, U-shaped patch of hair sat on his otherwise bald head; on the bridge of his nose perched a pair of small, round glasses and, over his white shirt, he was wearing an old-fashioned, black vest. Andy's only surviving grandparent--her mother's father--Melvin Nelson was a genuine, lively man, his spirit as big as his body was small, and he always wore a smile on his face. One notable thing about Melvin: much like his daughter, he had little to no filter.

"You're the wicked witch?" he asked in lieu of a greeting in his old, semi-quavering voice, staring up at Miranda in wonder. "You're a lot prettier than a witch."

"Your mother has been talking, I see," Miranda muttered drily.

"Are you Andy's daughter?" a gentle, smiling woman asked Caroline, who was digging into a generous piece of lasagna in the kitchen, guarding the pan closely lest someone else should want a serving.

"Gross, no," she exclaimed around a mouthful. "D'you think she had me when she was eleven?"

"He just came home from work, walked through the door, and..." Kate was telling someone in the living room, finishing her sentence with a vague wave of her hand. "Didn't even get to say hello."

"How terrible," her conversation partner responded.

"Heart attack."

As the wake progressed into the afternoon hours, people left and new ones arrived; serving dishes were gradually clearing (mostly thanks to Caroline's mouth) and plates and napkins littered every surface; Kate informed every listening ear of the events of her husband's death while Andy tried to keep a smile on her face with every new stranger or old acquaintance telling her how sorry they were. Miranda, on the other hand, didn't have the same stamina for social gatherings, and when enough was enough, she returned to her safe space, utilizing her phone to get work done.

Kate, perhaps on the same page, was met by Andy on the latter's exit from the bathroom upstairs. "Hey," said Andy. "Why aren't you downstairs with everybody?"

"Oh, I'll go back in a second," Kate replied, wringing her hands, and proceeded to lean her back against the hallway wall. Above her, Richard was smiling in a family photo, his arms around the women at his sides. "I just needed a little break from everyone for a minute."

"You okay?" Andy frowned.

Kate chuckled bitterly. "Define 'okay.'" Then she closed her eyes. "Yeah, it's just... a little much, you know?"

Andy knew. Joining her mother against the wall, she sighed, "Yeah."

"I still can't believe he's gone," Kate choked up.

"Me neither."

At that moment, Miranda passed by them, very softly and incredibly bone-chillingly barking into her phone, "Sorry is just an excuse to make the same mistake again." That made Kate reopen her eyes, but just as soon as she'd arrived, she disappeared into the guest room, the already low sound of her voice decreasing until it was gone.

"She works too much," Kate remarked once they'd been left alone, turning her head in Andy's direction with an arched eyebrow. "Don't think I haven't noticed that since you two came here."

"Mom," said Andy, meeting her gaze, "she's missing several days of work to be here." That in itself was a rare, uncharacteristic decision for Miranda to make, but as soon as she'd heard the news, she hadn't thought twice about making it. To Andy, it meant the world, especially knowing how important and demanding her job was; she only wished her mother could see it, too. Kate didn't respond, but it was apparent that, while slightly mollified, she wasn't quite there yet.

"Mom, I'm sorry about the eulogy," Andy changed the subject, and now that they were alone, it felt like an appropriate opportunity to address that particular part of the funeral. "I didn't mean to go off script like that."

But to her surprise, it wasn't criticism she received. Instead, her mother pushed off the wall, coming to face her fully, her expression warm. "No," she said softly, solemnly. "You said exactly what you needed to say." Rising on tiptoes, she cupped Andy's cheeks between her even warmer hands and pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. "I'm proud of you."

* * *

As the majority of the downstairs section of the house proved to be too crowded and noisy to her liking, Miranda found the kitchen relatively peaceful, and after being satisfied that her magazine wouldn't be destroyed at least for the upcoming hour or so, she decided to hide out there until the guests recognized that their presence was no longer needed while still maintaining an act of not being too antipathic to cloister herself upstairs. Upon entering the kitchen, however, she found it to already be occupied.

"Oh, let me do that," she offered at the sight of Kate standing at the counter and slicing bell peppers on a cutting board. The notion of getting her hands dirty with a housekeeper's task was less than appealing, but she'd gotten enough dirty looks from the woman throughout her stay there to know that allowing the widow to do all the work during her husband's wake would get her in even hotter water.

"No, it's fine, it's fine," Kate said nevertheless, waving her off. "We're running low on snacks out there. Besides, it gives me something to do so I don't go crazy." For that reason, Miranda resisted mentioning that with the abundance of food others had brought, no one would notice the lack of snacks on her part. Nonetheless, she cleared enough space on the counter for a second cutting board, grabbed a full pepper and a knife, and the thankful smile she received let her know it was the right choice.

They cut the vegetable in a companionable silence; while it simply wasn't in Miranda's nature to strike up a conversation, Kate, for what might have possibly been the first time in her life, just didn't seem inclined to talk. That, of course, was short-lived.

"It was a beautiful service, don't you think?" she asked.

Being diplomatic, Miranda nodded. "It was very nice." If she'd known, however, that small talk was in the cards, she never would have come into the kitchen in the first place.

"I think Richie would have liked it."

"I'm sure he would have."

She was caught by surprise, then, when Kate lowered her knife (thankfully) and turned in her direction. "You don't really want to be here, do you?"

Halting her own cutting, Miranda said, "Excuse me?"

"I know you don't feel comfortable in this house," Kate noted confidently.

Nonchalantly, Miranda evaded the accusation, resuming the cutting. "I don't think anybody is comfortable at a wake."

"I meant in general and you know it."

Small talk, it was evident, was over. Sighing, Miranda mirrored Kate's actions, putting down her knife and turning to face her. "Well, you've never made much of an effort to make me feel comfortable."

At that, Kate balked. "That's ridiculous."

Rolling her eyes, Miranda countered, "Give me a break, Kate, and don't insult my intelligence. You hate me."

"'Hate' is a strong word."

"Which I'm sure you've used on countless occasions behind my back," she said breezily.

"That's not true."

"Please. You've never thought I was good enough for Andrea."

"When have I ever given you that impression?" Kate challenged. Miranda pursed her lips.

"When you said, 'I don't think you're good enough for my daughter.'"

"Well, that was ages ago," Kate dismissed her, getting back to the task at hand. This time, she cut the pepper a little more forcefully. Miranda, on the other hand, didn't move.

"Alright. What about that time you tried to set Andrea up with that 'very nice, young man' your friend worked with?" she questioned, shooting a glare into the side of Kate's head.

Shrugging, Kate pursed her own lips. "I didn't know you were that serious."

"It was two days after our first anniversary."

"Well," she breathed.

Miranda stared at her for a few moments more before collecting all the pieces of pepper she'd sliced and tossing them on a plate. On her way out of the kitchen, Kate called after her, "Where are you going?"

Stopping in the doorway, she looked back. "You were right: I don't feel comfortable here."

It was Kate's turn to roll her eyes. "Please. Don't take everything I say so seriously." But when Miranda didn't budge, she patted the abandoned cutting board, manipulatively saying, "Come on, I'm a widow now, you have to do what I say."

Andy, Miranda had already decided, was going to owe her so, so much. But nevertheless, she returned to Kate's side and watched as the latter silently continued her cutting.

"You know," Kate said at last, "I see you on your phone or computer constantly. Is that office really incapable of running without you there?"

"It really is," Miranda answered curtly.

"I do have a subscription, though," she caught Miranda off guard by saying.

"I didn't know that," she replied honestly. She certainly hadn't seen any issues around the house.

"It's very good work that you do. Not that I understand much about it. The editing side of it, I mean," she explained, waving her knife in the air. Because fashion-wise, Miranda didn't say, she had the concept down pat.

Calming down, she willingly took the compliment. "Well, I'm very glad you like it--"

"But work isn't everything in life," Kate continued and, well, she'd known it was too good to be true. "You have to make some room for other things."

Bitterly, Miranda muttered through her teeth, "Thanks for the advice."

"I'm serious," insisted Kate, and just like that, her face did become serious, the peppers all forgotten. She searched Miranda's evasive eyes with her own, and when she had her attention, she nodded, a sad frown marking her suddenly much older-looking face. "It's what killed him, you know. Richard."

They weren't throwing barbs at each other anymore. This wasn't their usual, easy-going banter. This _was_ serious, and Miranda's shoulders lost their defensive tension, her facial muscles relaxing as she listened. "I have no way to prove it, of course, but I know." Kate pointed at her chest. "Here, I know. It was the work that killed him. He was very dedicated to it, like you, like Andy. I always joke that you made her a workaholic, but I know she inherited it from him: her stubborness, her tenaciousness. Her integrity, too."

On that--the wonderful qualities that made Andy so wonderfully Andy--they could both agree. It wouldn't have worked between them, after all, if Andy hadn't shared Miranda's passion for what she was best at, if she'd settled on being a good, little wife (or, in their case, significant other) or, worse, expected Miranda to. Miranda licked her lips as Kate's face hardened. "But I will never forgive him for paying so much attention to his job and less to himself. With all those hours, all that stress... it's no wonder his heart couldn't take it anymore. And it's not fair, Miranda," she added, and there her voice cracked, her eyes immediately filling with tears that made Miranda gulp. "It's not fair that I lost the _decades_ I should have still had with my husband because of a job. A _job_. That's what it is. A paycheck. It's not a life; me and Andy, we were his life."

Pushing her tongue into her cheek, Miranda looked away, but Kate persisted, "Don't do the same thing to Andy. And to your beautiful girls." Gently, she implored, "And to yourself."

Miranda didn't look back at her, even as silence took over. The noises from the rest of the house had dissipated, as if separate from the kitchen and their own, little bubble. It wasn't until Kate sniffed, clapped her hands, and said, "Well," returning to the forgotten peppers, that normalcy resumed. She carefully arranged all the red, orange, and yellow pieces in a circle around the edge of the plate before picking it up. Pausing by Miranda's side, she looked up at her. "And I don't hate you. How could I? You make my life so much more interesting."

* * *

When the sliding door to the back porch opened, Caroline startled, making to put out her cigarette, but when she saw it wasn't her mother joining her, she relaxed back into her plastic chair, exhaling the smoke in her throat.

"What are you doing here all alone?" Andy's grandfather asked good-naturedly, placing his hands in his pants' pockets.

"Smoking," Caroline answered matter-of-factly.

Melvin took a long, quiet look at the girl, his eyes twinkling with unconcealed amusement as they traveled from her dyed hair to her heavy makeup, abundant jewelry, and the plain, black dress complemented by the spiked ankle boots. "You're a funky kid, aren't you?" he concluded finally, his entire face mirthful.

Caroline gave him a side-eye. "I guess."

"Mind if I join you?" He placed his hand on the back of an available, plastic chair. She gestured carelessly toward it.

"What's your name?" he inquired, taking his seat.

"Caroline," she supplied around a puff of smoke. "You?"

"I'm Melvin. It's a pleasure to meet you." After a pause, he ascertained, "You're Miranda's kid, right?"

"You know my mom?"

"Oh, just had the pleasure of meeting her as well. But I've heard so much about her. Not all flattering, but she's a very impressive woman, isn't she?"

"I guess," Caroline mumbled. Then she looked at him again, her eyes narrowing into thin, dark, eyeliner-framed slits. "She's gay, you know," she revealed, apropos of nothing.

"Oh, yes, I've gleaned that." Melvin nodded slowly.

"Aren't you, like, really old?" she questioned. "Shouldn't you hate gays or something?"

Grinning widely, showing all his yellowed teeth, he spread his arms by his sides. "Haven't we all been gay at some point?"

And slowly, gradually, Caroline's lips began to twitch and stretch, his joy particularly infectious. "I like you, super old dude," she decided, then held out her cigarette with raised eyebrows.

"Caroline," she heard from the doorway, instantly rolling her eyes. The party-pooper coming to poop the party. "One dead family member in a week is enough," Miranda decreed, prompting her to pull back the cigarette.

"Don't worry, Wicked Witch." Melvin smiled up from his seat. "We're just having a good time."

From his other side, Caroline erupted in giggles, hunching over and grabbing her belly, already anticipating the poor, old man's demise. "Oh, my god!"

* * *

Dinner, accompanied by Melvin, was had at the large dining table off to the living room, but only because the multiple "pity foods" comprising it didn't fit on the small kitchen table.

"Is there any of the lasagna left?" Kate asked while Caroline shrank in her seat and waved off Andy's proffered tuna casserole with a pronounced, "Ew, gross."

"There's baked ziti," offered Miranda.

"Can you pass me the green beans?" asked Andy.

"Dad, eat some more coleslaw, it's good for you," Kate urged while already dumping a large portion onto Melvin's plate, and his exclamation that it made him gassy made Caroline and Andy snicker while Miranda looked on in disgust.

"Here's to Richard," he announced later, holding up a glass of cranberry juice. Around the table, following his example, everyone raised their own glasses of various beverages.

"To Richard."

* * *

"I thought the funeral was nice, right?" Andy said later that evening, speaking from the guest room's en suite while Miranda sat on the edge of the bed, moisturizing her arms and hands. "Not overly religious, not too cheesy. It was respectful."

"Mhm," concured Miranda.

Drying her hands on a towel, Andy turned off the light and joined her in the room. "My mom told me she caught some dirty looks from Ms. Archer during the ceremony." She smirked, climbing onto the bed. "Apparently, she's always had a crush on my dad."

Wordlessly, Miranda continued to rub lotion into her skin. Midwestern air made it unpleasantly dry. "You okay?"

Lips puckering, she decided to bite the bullet, casually inquiring, "Do you worry about me?"

"What do you mean?" Andy frowned behind her.

After a hesitant pause, she elaborated, "Do you think I work too hard?"

"Oh, no, did my mom get to you?"

She didn't answer, didn't reveal any of the details from their earlier conversation, but they occupied her thoughts relentlessly. Kate had always been bitchy when it came to her work ethic--and, really, most everything else about Miranda--but she'd never given it much thought, never attributed it to anything other than bitchiness. Perhaps it was the overall grim mood of the last days adding to Kate's words that made her take them seriously for the first time.

Richard had been a hard worker, indeed, but not in the same capacity that Miranda was. And she was already a great deal older than Andy, an unfortunate fact which almost guaranteed an earlier death. She thought of Kate's grief and Andy's inability to come to terms with losing her father, and she thought of returning home one day only for her heart to give out before she'd even had a chance to greet her family--or say goodbye. And she hated Kate for putting those thoughts in her head.

"Hey." Andy's touch startled her out of her musings, rubbing up and down her arms. "I love your passion for your work. And I love how much you love working. It's one of the things that made me attracted to you in the first place."

Humming noncommittally, she turned her head sideways as Andy began nuzzling her shoulder blade. "Stop taking everything my mom says so seriously. She's just trying to get under your skin."

Miranda didn't respond because the scary part was she didn't think that had been Kate's intention this time. And also because Andy's hands snaked around her body to run down her hips. "Can I interest you in a little..."

Surprised, she admitted, "I didn't think you'd want..."

Kissing her neck, Andy murmured, "I do want." It might have been the grief talking, the need to get her mind off of everything for just a short while and escape to a place where she didn't have to think about anything other than her pleasure, but if that was the case, Miranda would give her what she needed. She thought she could use the distraction as well.


	3. Chapter 3

_Silence presided over the line. Kate said nothing, Richard said nothing, Andy waited with bated breath, and finally, when she was about to check if the call had disconnected, she heard it._

_"No," said Richard, one, simple syllable that held so much resolution and gravitas._

_"Dad--"_

_"You are not moving to New York."_

_"Dad, we've already decided--"_

_"I don't care. You are too young."_

_"I'm almost twenty-three. And a college graduate," Andy pointed out bitterly._

_"Richard," Kate tentatively intervened from the other extention in the house, "I think you're being too harsh. She can take care of herself."_

_"Thank you, Mom."_

_"It's not her I'm worried about. It's that Nate guy. I don't trust him."_

_"_ What? _" Andy boggled._

_"I've only met him once and he doesn't seem right for you. Too self-involved."_

_"You've met him twice," she corrected him, "and he's perfect for me. I love him, and he loves me."_

_"You say that now," Richard allowed, "but wait until you share an apartment with him, in New York, no less. It's not like having a college roommate." Wordlessly, Andy rolled her eyes in irritation even as he went on to say, "I still think you missed out on_ Stanford Law _\--"_

_"Oh, Dad, not again," she whined. "I told you, I want to be a journalist. And I'm going to: working in New York is gonna open so many doors for me, you'll see."_

_"We believe in you, honey," her mother, ever the buffer, chimed in again._

_"And besides, living with someone will make it a lot easier to pay rent," she tried deceptively._

_"Oh!" said Kate. "Then why not Lily?"_

_Andy gritted her teeth. "You're not helping, Mom."_

_"If rent is what you're worried about..." her father began testily._

_"It's not," she hastened to assure him._

_"Because your father and I can help," Kate said._

_"Mom, it's fine. Dad..." She drew in a big gulp of air. "Please trust me; I know what I'm doing."_

_The silence that stretched was unnerving, but when Richard's voice returned to the line, it was decidedly softer. "I know you do. But I can't help worrying."_

* * *

Mid-morning, during a quiet breakfast of leftover wake food that wasn't necessarily suited for breakfast but had to be consumed to clear the fridge, a knock came on the door.

"Mark," Kate greeted the guest fondly and promptly wrapped her arms around him. "Thank you for coming."

"I'm very sorry. For all of us," the guest--Mark--said in his deep, calming voice. "He was a remarkable man."

"Yes, he was."

* * *

"In the event that I pre-decease my wife, Kate Elizabeth Sachs, I give, devise, and bequeath the house and all of the physical property I have ownership in at the time of my death to her, absolutely and entirely. My shares in my firm, _Upton & Sachs_, I leave to my only daughter, Andrea Isabella Sachs, absolutely and entirely, to do with as she pleases.

"Should my wife, Kate Elizabeth Sachs, not be living, then I give, devise, and bequeath all of the remaining and residual property I have ownership in at the time of my death, whether real property, personal property, or both, of whatever kind and wherever situated, to my daughter, Andrea Isabella Sachs, absolutely and entirely."

"I--" Andy stammered after a drawn-out silence, mouth gaping. She pointed at herself, as if there was another Andrea Sachs in the room. "I get the law firm?"

Mark, the Upton in _Upton & Sachs_ and Richard's best friend, smiled indulgently. "You get the money," he patiently explained. "Nobody expects you to become a lawyer overnight. Of course no one can replace your dad's sharp mind, but until I appoint a new partner, what was his is yours."

"Damn, Andy." Caroline elbowed her from her slouched position on the living room sofa.

Damn, indeed. She, of course, hardly needed the money at this point in her life, but it was definitely the thought that counted. Leaning back slowly against the cushion, she couldn't help a small smirk. Her father had never given up on the dream of her succeeding him, of her taking after him.

* * *

"Is that the Book?" Caroline appeared behind Miranda, breathing right onto her neck.

"The digital copy," Miranda answered absently, scrolling down her laptop screen. "I'm way behind on it. I prefer the physical copy, but I guess I can't be picky right now."

"That's 'cause you're old," Caroline teased, pulling up a chair to join her at the dining table.

"You smell like an ashtray," Miranda chided. "And I don't need a distraction."

Making to sit down, Caroline froze, trying to mask her disappointment. "Oh." Miranda, however, had already glimpsed the fleeting look of uncertainty on her face, and it was when Caroline was turning to leave that she caught herself.

"Wait," she called. Caroline turned back just in time to see the laptop snap shut. "Come here." She patted the vacant chair. "Sit with me."

Although still hesitant, Caroline followed the order, gingerly lowering into the seat. "I didn't mean to bother you. Just got a litte bored."

Smiling, Miranda tucked a stray of dark hair behind a pale ear. "You're never bothering me."

* * *

In what was now _her_ bedroom, Kate was carefully folding clothing articles into an open suitcase on the bed. That was, until Andy walked in, baffled.

"Mom?" She made her look up. "What are you doing?"

"Getting rid of some things. I'm thinking of donating them to _Goodwill_ ," Kate explained emotionlessly. As she picked up the expensive tie she'd gifted Richard for his fiftieth birthday, she sighed, mumbling, "He won't be needing this anymore."

"You're getting rid of Dad's clothes?" Andy walked, wide-eyed and incredulous, further into the room.

"Better sooner rather than later."

"Mom," she exclaimed, snatching the tie from her hands. It was blue--her father's favorite color--with black and golden stripes, made from extremely decadent silk. "We _just_ buried him. There isn't even a headstone yet. Don't you think you're rushing things a little?"

"What difference does it make?" Kate replied indifferently. "He's not coming back." Which was when Andy realized that her mother was anything but indifferent.

"Mom..." she whispered.

"And frankly," Kate continued as if she hadn't spoken and slumped heavily on the edge of the bed, looking up at her daughter with sorrowful eyes, "it makes me sad"--her voice broke, becoming watery--"to see his things everywhere."

Looking around the room she'd entered for the first time since arriving at her childhood home, Andy immediately understood what her mother was talking about. Nothing in the space indicated her father's passing: it looked as though he'd just left for the day and would return in the evening to hop in the shower, lay out an outfit for the next day, lie in bed with the book on his nightstand and place his glasses on it once he'd finished. And, in fact, that was exactly the case: he'd left the room three days ago to go to work and never returned. The clothes in the closet didn't know he wasn't coming back, nor did the items on his nightstand or the toiletries in the bathroom. His thriller novel was perched on the nightstand, spine cracked, with a bookmark two-thirds of the way in, never to be finished; his pillow still held his smell on the bed Kate now occupied alone. Everything was standing still, frozen in time, waiting for its owner.

"Okay," Andy whispered around a lump in her throat, trying to gulp it down. "Do you, um... do you need some help?"

With a grateful, albeit quivering, smile, Kate nodded. "That would be lovely."

"I can't believe how many sweater vests he owned," Andy claimed some time later, extracting the fifth, hideously mustard-colored one from the closet and handing it to Kate to fold.

"He sure liked his sweater vests," she chuckled in confirmation.

"Look at this." Andy held an already prepared ensemble of a green sweater vest over a white dress shirt--a look which her father would have surely completed with a tie and the suede jacket she'd found earlier--on a hanger against her thinner body. "He actually thought this was fancy."

"Look at you, Miss Fashion," teased Kate with a smirk, taking the hanger from her. "Need I remind you whose fashion sense you took after before becoming Mrs. Miranda Priestly?"

For a moment of seriousness, Andy warned, "Stop." But her mother was unfazed.

"I'm just kidding. Do the nightstand drawers, will you?"

"Sure," Andy sighed. However, on her way around the bed, she paused, grimacing. "Wait. I'm not gonna find anything gross in there, right?"

"No," Kate laughed. "That's in my nightstand."

" _Mom!_ " she exclaimed, which only made Kate's laugh intensify while a shiver ran down Andy's spine.

"Oh, grow up."

"Jesus," she muttered under her breath, shaking herself in disgust. Kneeling before the nightstand, she opened the first drawer, where she found chargers, a tube of hand lotion, the television remote, a pack of tissues, and other things that hinted at a frequent use of the drawer. The second drawer housed a smaller variety of objects, including a black sleep mask, a legal pad, a crossword puzzle book.

But when she reached the bottom drawer, Andy's forehead creased in intrigue. Carefully, she pulled out a folder, immediately recognizing its contents: each new page was a different newspaper clipping, from her first fluff piece in _The New York Mirror_ to her most recent, freelance article in _The New York Times_. For close to a decade, it occured to her, her father had been saving each and every piece with her name on it. Breathless, she flipped through the little time machine, touched and amazed, when she noticed something else peeking from the back of the drawer.

Placing the folder on the bed, she reached in, touched something soft, pulled it out, and gasped loudly enough to draw her mother's attention. "Bunny!" she breathed out, her jaw sagging.

"Oh, I forgot about him," Kate provided affectionately at the small, stuffed elephant in her daughter's hands. The powder blue and white fabric was, after almost thirty years and countless cuddling, closer to grey on the color scheme with brown stains all over. One ear was tearing at the seams while one of the plastic eyes was literally hanging on by a single thread. The name had been granted to the toy after two-year-old Andy's insistance that she wanted a pet bunny due to seeing one on television, and her parents' reluctance to bring a live animal into the house and inability to find a plush one. With their toddler, mercifully, the difference in animals hadn't registered.

"What's he doing here?" Andy asked in a quiet, wonderous voice, tenderly stroking the not-so-soft-anymore fur.

"Well..." Kate came to sit at the side of the bed, above her kneeling daughter, with a sly smile. "I think when you went away to college, your dad missed you too much, even if he didn't want to show it. So he took him." She stroked a used-to-be blue ear between her fingers. "So neither of them would be lonely."

* * *

"What's going on with you?" Miranda inquired gently.

Instantly defensive, Caroline shot, "Nothing."

"Remember how we used to talk?" Miranda smiled, strangely nostalgic. It must have been the atmosphere of death and memories bringing out the dusty sentimentality in her, or too much time spent with Andy. "You used to come into my bedroom and tell me all about your day."

"Yeah, well, I'm not ten anymore," was Caroline's sarcastic comment. "And, besides, you're always too busy."

At that, Miranda's face fell, the truth punching her right in the gut. She'd always put her children first, even before work, which was her third baby. Or at least she'd tried, but as everyone around her was making sure to point out recently, she was apparently failing at everything. Which was just unacceptable: Miranda Priestly didn't do failure. She only knew how to excel. Then again, up until Andy came on the scene, every one of her personal relationships, platonic and romantic alike, had failed, and by proxy, she'd failed her daughters. Was it really a wonder that one seemed to hate her and the other had fled halfway across the world? Somewhere down the line, something had gone very, very wrong, and a nagging part in her head told her she might be out of time to fix it. Her work, throughout everything, had always remained impeccable, but she was beginning to wonder if the cost justified the cause.

"Well, I'm not busy now," she stated and pushed away her laptop for emphasis. "Why don't you tell me how school is going?"

Wrinkling her nose, Caroline asked, "Do we have to talk about that?"

"No," Miranda chuckled knowingly, but something inside her released with relief. A previously firmly shut door was cracking open for her--it might not be too late after all. "We can talk about anything you want."

She hadn't, however, anticipated Caroline's next question, and her words startled her, making her eyebrows jump almost all the way up to her hairline and squeezing tightly at her heart. "You're not going to die, right?"

"What?"

"I don't wanna be like Andy," Caroline admitted. "I mean, only have, like, ten more years with you or Dad. I think... I want more."

Inside Miranda's chest, something very painful began to contract. Looking at her daughter, she suddenly didn't look twenty-years-old. She didn't even look like the badass rebel whose identity she was trying so hard to adopt, but more like a little kid afraid of the dark, wide, blue eyes pleading with her mommy to stay with her until she fell asleep.

"Bobbsey," Miranda whispered, taking even herself by surprise with the nickname that hadn't fallen from her lips in years. To her bigger astonishment, Caroline didn't rebuke her. "I'm not going anywhere," she assured her. "I'm far too stubborn for that and, besides, I'm afraid Andrea will never let me or I'll get in very big trouble."

That seemed to break whatever spell had seized her daughter, who started laughing. "She's so the boss of you."

"Don't let her know that." At Caroline's seemingly contemplative silence, she prodded, "What is it?"

She didn't answer right away, momentarily biting her lip before casting her gaze downward. In a matter of two days, she was the polar opposite of the crude, callous girl who'd cursed at her mother in the Sachses' driveway, looking more and more like a lost, helpless kid. Especially when she cautiously asked, "Do you really think Cassidy is better than me?"

Giving her the automatic rehearsed answer any parent would, perhaps to get over the initial shock the question had stirred, Miranda replied, "I think you're both perfect." But this time, it obviously wasn't enough.

Taking her daughter's hands in hers--she was wearing more rings at once than Miranda had in her lifetime--she squeezed them. "It's true that I don't understand very well this... phase you're going through."

Right on cue, Caroline rolled her eyes and tried to detatch from the hold. "Mom..."

"But if anything, I think it makes you unique. You don't let anyone dictate what you should look or act like, which is precisely my take on fashion, and everything else in life. You actually remind me a little bit of myself."

"But Cassidy does everything better," Caroline added sourly.

Miranda didn't take the bait. "Cassidy also decided that she wanted to take a year off college to backpack through Europe--trust me, I have my fair share of problems with her, too." Only when she'd heard the words coming out of her mouth, though, did she realize her grave, past mistake. "And I shouldn't have compared you two. As similar as you are, you're also so very different, and you each fill a different room in my heart. And I wouldn't give it up for anything."

"Yeah?" Caroline squeaked uncertainly.

"Oh, yes. Everything I have, it would mean nothing without you and your sister. My whole life revolves around the two of you." She chuckled, then, and delighted Caroline with her next statement. "You've got me wrapped around your little fingers."

"Good," Caroline said simply, but couldn't hold back the grin that wanted to spread. "I'm sorry, Mom," she apologized and seemed to mean it. Wonders never cease. "I know I've been a bitch lately."

"I guess you learned from the best," Miranda allowed, pulling her laughing kid into a hug.

* * *

Feeling lighter than she had in years, Miranda walked into the guest room, and froze in the doorway, her eyes widening. Slowly, she took in the scene in front of her: on the floor, leaning against the bed, Andy sat with an old, ratty, plush toy clutched against her chest, and as what looked to not be a recent development, judging by the puffy eyes and runny nose, she was crying. No, crying was an understatement: she was _weeping_ , heart-wrenching sobs drawn from her throat, accompanying an unstoppable stream of tears. And when she caught sight of Miranda, it didn't seem possible, but the crying intensified, barely leaving room for intakes of oxygen.

Through the tears, she gasped, almost unintelligbly, "My-- dad-- is-- dead-- and I... I can't breathe..."

And so it came to be that, shutting the door behind her, in $850 _Michael Kors_ pants, Miranda sat down on the floor and gathered the shaking, sobbing mess that was Andy into her arms. Like a dam that had been broken, the tears kept coming unbidden, wetting Miranda's blouse and soaking through the fabric. "I can't--" Andy hiccuped, "stop. I can't--"

"Shhh..." Miranda rocked her, almost absentmindedly, while Andy gripped the toy harder. "Shhh..."

It took long minutes until the crying finally subsided, clearing the way for quiet, exhausted tears and occasional hiccups, Andy's head limp against Miranda's shoulder. Her breathing had slowed down and her eyes had grown heavy, her whole body weary from a long-overdue breakdown. "I miss him," she muttered, her voice tired and hoarse, and the confession spurred on a new wave of tears. "I miss him so much."

"I know."

"I'm not even angry anymore," she continued, wiping her wet nose with the back of a hand, "I'm just sad." Which felt strange to admit: a feeling so common it had been granted a status of too much simplicity to truly encapsulate the grave feeling of loss and brokenheartedness, and yet it captured her feelings perfectly. She was sad, simple as that. It was a real, raw emotion that had seized her in its claws and refused to let go.

"That's good," Miranda suddenly said, filling the silence. Confused, Andy frowned up at her. "You should be sad. It shows you're coping."

After a short debate with herself, she asked carefully, "How did you cope?"

"Denial," Miranda answered plainly. She'd buried herself in her work, like she knew best. She did it when she was angry, she did it even when she was in a good mood, and she'd done it when she was grieving the death of her own father, and it had achieved exactly the opposite result of acceptance. Andy, to her relief, was not as stupid or emotionally closed off as her.

"He was a very good man," she determined, and this time it wasn't as empty a statement as it had been from every funeral attendee. From someone who, for a long time, had not been on Richard Sachs's good graces--and, alternatively, he on hers--it was sincere.

"He was always nice to me, even when he wasn't," she recalled. Even when he'd probably hated her guts. "Your mother..." she began, but didn't need to finish, startling a knowing, teary laugh from Andy.

"She never hid anything," Andy finished for her, smiling through the tears.

"No," Miranda chuckled. "She never does. But Richard made me feel welcome, even if it was the last thing he wanted to do."

"He liked you," said Andy. "Eventually."

"I don't know about that." Miranda shrugged. "But he respected me. And that was much more important to me. I respected him, too."

Returning her head to her shoulder, Andy looked down at the small elephant in her hands, the tear tracks beginning to dry and harden on her cheeks. "I've been thinking," she started softly. Miranda pulled a strand of hairs away from her sticky face. "I was thinking we should take the money he left me and go on a little vacation, just the two of us." She'd need one when this was all over, need to escape her hectic life for a few days of relaxation and clear her head, feel happy again. Another basic emotion she'd always taken for granted.

"We will," Miranda agreed. "I could use a vacation."

Running a hand up and down a _Michael Kors_ -clad leg, Andy leaned in, basking in her warmth and comforting scent. "I'm glad I have you with me through all of this."

"Me, too."

* * *

Late in the evening, while families on the street dined together after a day apart or bathed their kids or sat down to watch the news, from the Sachs household, laughter roared. Around the coffee table knelt Andy, Kate, and Caroline while Miranda reclined on the sofa with a coffee mug, watching the three go through the numerous photo albums hiding the table's surface.

"Remember this one?" Kate pulled out a picture and handed it to Andy; in it, serious, sensible Richard had dressed for Halloween as a woman--not quite drag, but still funny enough to release peals of laughter from Andy, who fell back against Miranda's shins.

"Show me," Caroline requested, joining in on the noise when her eyes landed on the photograph.

"But remember the time he dressed up as a one night stand for his office party?" Andy reminded her mother through the laughter. "That was iconic."

"A what?" Caroline frowned.

"Oh, I'm sure there's a picture of it somewhere." Kate began rummaging through the pages of the albums even as she explained, "He put himself inside a cardboard box and made it look like a nightstand."

"You're forgetting the best part: he put a lampshade over his head," Andy interjected, turning to Caroline. "Get it? It's a pun."

"That's so lame," Caroline replied, but couldn't conceal her amusement. Sifting through stray pictures, she asked, "Were you really considering becoming a lawyer?"

"Oh, yeah." Andy nodded emphatically. "I was even accepted to _Stanford Law_ before I picked _Northwestern_. I think he never really forgave me for that," she said wryly, only half-meaning it. "But, well, that was his dream, not mine."

"Oh, look at this," Kate's voice interrupted, but where moments ago it had been loud and humorous, it was decidedly softer now, and the picture she was smiling tenderly at was not of the infamous costume: in it, a young Richard, head full of dark hair, twenty pounds lighter, was gazing down at the infant in his arms, his eyes twinkling with warmth and love while Andy stared up at him wide-eyed and open-mouthed, as if she already recognized him, knew he would protect her.

And once the dam had been broken, it appeared there was no holding back the flood because, instinctively, Andy's eyes welled up, even as she quickly blinked the tears away, her grip on the picture feather-light, as though the slightest touch would damage it and taint the memory forever. Suddenly, the laughing had stopped, and Kate suggested knowingly, "You should keep that one."

Andy nodded, posing no argument, and handed the item to Miranda to look at.

  
_Their hands landed on the bill holder simultaneously, Miranda's and Richard's, and their eyes met challengingly over it._

_"I insist," said Miranda with the last vestiges of politeness and patience she had in her after an entire evening spent with the Sachses._

_"No, no," replied Richard, matching her tone, evidently playing the same game. "It was our treat."_

_"Nonsense, you're our guests."_

_"I might not make as much as you," he said, his voice starting to strain around the words, "but I assure you, Miranda, I can afford it." Even if a meal for four at_ Eleven Madison Park _was not nearly within his budget._

_"Andy," Kate's neutral voice cut into the conversation, "I need to use the restroom, will you accompany me?"_

_"What?" Andy stammered, puzzled, eyes darting between her dinner companions. "B-but I--" At her side, Miranda threw her a sideways glare, her nonverbal way of pointing out her density. It appeared to work because a moment later, she uttered, "Oh," and hurriedly rose from her seat, following her mother away from the table. Leaving Miranda and Richard alone._

_Quietly, Miranda cleared her throat and picked up her napkin to daintily wipe her already clean lips. "I'm sure we can both agree not many family dinners are in our foreseeable future," she concluded airily._

_Through a clenched jaw, Richard said, "I'm trying here, Miranda."_

_"I'm sure you are."_

_"Look." He placed his hands on the table, looking and sounding, for all intents and purposes, like he was commencing a mediation meeting. And, well, perhaps he was. "Neither of us is too thrilled about this. You know how Kate and I feel about this relationship and I can only imagine what you think of us." Miranda didn't bother to refute him, nor tell him what she thought of him and his wife. "But this is important to Andy, and I think we can both say that we want her to be happy, right?" Her answer to that was a raised eyebrow, as if it was too obvious to verbalize. "Good. We're on the same page. So I'll just say this: if you ever do something to intentionally hurt her, you'll have to answer to me. Is that clear?"_

_Miranda's own jaw hardened, her lips tightening. Her eyes narrowed as she shot him a baleful glare from across the table, her tone steely and as cold as the freezer that had housed the steak she had just consumed as she responded, "I don't take kindly to threats."_

_"Then consider this a promise," he replied without missing a beat. "Andy is my only child--"_

_"How very patrialistic of you."_

_At that, Richard deflated slightly. "That's not what I mean. I don't own her, I don't have a say in who she chooses to be with. But I will always care when she gets hurt."_

_"And what, pray tell, makes you think I will hurt her?" Miranda leaned back in her chair, tilting her head to the side._

_"Only time will tell." He pushed his glasses up his nose, giving her a long stare. For a split second, Miranda thought she could see the corner of his lips twitch, and it was in that moment that she realized he had no such notion after all; in his own way, without putting all his cards on the table, he was saying, "Welcome to the family. This is who you're dealing with. See how you fare." And_ that _Miranda could respect._

_"How about we split the bill?" she proposed._

* * *

Andy held Caroline close to her. "You call us, okay?" she demanded in the form of a request and pulled back to gauge Caroline's face.

"Will do." Caroline nodded before being taken into another hug.

"Thank you for coming."

"Andrea, let her go," Miranda instructed. "She has a long drive back." That did not deter Andy, who held the embrace for a longer moment. When she'd finally released her, Caroline climbed into her car and slammed the door shut.

"Bye, fuckers," she declared, revving up the engine.

"Hey." Andy poked her head through the open window. "None of this while driving," she warned, holding her flexed index and middle fingers up to her lips.

Smirking, Caroline replied, "No, I'll leave that to you," and promptly put the car in reverse.

"What?" Andy straightened, looking around the driveway, first at her mother, then Miranda, who glared disapprovingly at the car skidding down the driveway. "I don't understand."

"That's for the best," she said drily.

Not a minute after Caroline had gone, a chauffered Mercedes rolled up to the curb, the late morning sun beaming down at its black, polished exterior, scorching it with its touch. Their own ride had arrived to take them to the airport, and as the uniformed driver exited the car to collect their baggage, Andy turned to her mother.

"Will you be okay?" she asked, as inanely as it felt.

Dismissively, Kate waved her hands. "Oh, I'll be fine. Don't worry about me." But the truth was she was about to enter the house she'd, up until less than a week ago, shared with her husband and resume her life alone. She might meet someone new, Andy supposed begrudgingly, somewhere down the line, but for the time being, Kate's life was about to become very, very lonely.

"We'll visit," Andy promised ardently. "As soon as possible."

"Please. You have your own lives. I'll be okay." Over Andy's shoulder, she smiled and nodded at someone, and Andy turned to see Miranda approaching.

"Well." Kate clapped her hands together. "You have a flight to catch. And I don't want to keep your driver waiting."

Miranda was quick to accept the polite dismissal. "Goodbye, Kate," she offered, going in for a couple of air kisses.

Andy, on the other hand, was not as quick. Wrapping her arms around her mother as tightly as she had with Caroline, she beseeched, "Call me. For anything, okay?"

"I will." It was as empty a promise as Caroline agreeing to stay in touch, but nevertheless, she hugged her daughter close, breathing in her scent.

"I love you, Mom," Andy whispered. She couldn't remember the last time she'd said it to her father, which made it feel all the more urgent to make her feelings known while she still could. "I really love you."

"I love you, too, baby."

"Ready to go?" Miranda asked when they'd parted.

Looking up at the house she'd grown up in, Andy sighed. It didn't seem quite the same: the building was the same building, the furniture unchanged, but the atmosphere that had once resided within the walls was gone. It really was the people who made a house a home, and Richard Sachs's absence would be acutely sensed for a long time to come.

"Yeah," she sighed again, wordlessly bidding the house--and with it all the memories it held--farewell. "There's just one last thing I have to do first."

* * *

The chilly wind whooshed at her back, blowing at her scarf and the hem of her wool coat as she stood over the mound of dirt, not yet covered with anything but flowers. The smell of the earth was fresh and sharp in the air, stray rays of sun trying to force their way down to the world through cracks in the heavy mass of clouds; one shone directly on Richard Sachs's grave.

"Hey, Dad," Andy spoke into the quiet stillness of the cemetery. "Sorry for my kind of hostile eulogy at the funeral, I know you deserved better. I guess what I really wanted to say is... I love you, and I really miss you. I don't know, is it weird to miss you already? We've gone much longer stretches of time without seeing each other, but... well, this is obviously different. The truth is... I'm not sure I know how to live a life without you in it. Without your guidance, and your approval. You always seemed immortal, I mean, the mere notion of not having a dad was inconceivable. Still is. But you know what? I think I'm gonna be okay. And Mom's gonna be okay. I just have a feeling it'll all be okay. So you don't have to worry about us; you just... you rest, okay?

"So, um," she continued following a short pause, licking her lips, "I'm gonna come visit you, often. But in the meantime..." In front of the new grave, she lowered to her knees, saying her last goodbye.

As the Mercedes glided down the road, passing the endless rows of marble and stone, taking Andy and Miranda back to their normal life, the clouds began to part, inviting the sun to cast some light and warmth on the cemetery's eternal inhabitants.

On Richard Sachs's grave, keeping him company in his sleep, lay a worn-out, plush elephant that answered to the name Bunny. So neither of them would be lonely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading. Please take a second to tell me what you thought, your comments mean so much to me.


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